Red is dead! - English version
by Major Gerfaut
Summary: – Prequel, English translation of a novel previously published in French, below. – Here is my version of the events that took place during the hour before the very opening of the movie: The way Fury got pinned amid a tangle of burning wrecks of American tanks and German vehicles, with its assistant driver decapitated...
1. Scouting

**"I had the best assistant driver in the entire Ninth Army in that seat. Now I got you..."  
**_[ Don to Norman, after being allocated this worthless rookie as Red's replacement. ]_

_I have always found that the opening sequence, the very first minutes of the movie, illustrate the typical Hollywood, quite disturbing lack of realism. Let's just set up the scene for the record__, at the moment when a German officer riding a white horse comes on stage__: on a misty dawn, _Fury_ got pinned (yet still operative, just needing some minor fixing on the electric circuit) in the middle of a surrealist tangle of wreckages mixing civilian cars ablaze, disabled German tanks (recognizable silhouettes of one Panzer IV and one Panzer V Panther) and American Shermans, all of which seeming to have just destroyed each other at point blank range! 'Red', the bow machine-gunner of _Fury_, has been sharply decapitated, without his combat station nor any other part of the tank having suffered any armor-piercing impact; and the skin of his still identifiable face is properly laid down just behind his seat!_

_Hence this motivating challenge to me: to try to imagine realistic circumstances that could have led our favorite tank crew into that surrealistic situation. I can't pretend my work to be flawless. I can't pretend to have achieved perfect realism. And moreover, I can't pretend myself to have escaped the influence of many Hollywood clichés. Yet some constructive critical feedbacks could possibly help me to improve this daring prequel. Please feel inspired..._

– Historical note: Usually, all of the individual nicknames for US tanks began with a first letter corresponding to the company to which they were assigned; thus, _Fury_ would have been part of Fox Company, 66th Regiment. However, none of the Shermans of the 1st Platoon (to which _Fury_ is attached after rejoining the bivouac) has a name beginning with the same first letter! Still, I chose to keep this rule for the tanks of the 3rd Platoon, consumed already (save _Fury_) when the movie starts. –

-–- Translation of a novel previously published in French: Please forgive the fact that English is not my native language... -–-

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**South of Hanover, German Reich, April 1945 –  
****Operational area of the U.S. 2nd Armored Division –  
****The last day for the 3rd Medium Tank Platoon...**

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-–- ¡Madre de Dios!_ That looks ugly for sure..._

-–- _Holy shit, no way we can get used to that... Damn, I'm about to puke!_

-–- _You know what, dudes? Reminds me of..._

-–- _...Normandy? I'm right, Coon-Ass? Yeah, that's what I thought. We'll try not to chat about it, okay?_

The five Sherman tanks of the 3rd Platoon had been ordered to reconnoiter a column of German vehicles advancing from Hanover, reported by the Air Force to the Ninth Army's HQ. Seemingly, the airmen had decided in the meantime to resolve the problem by themselves, with their usual effectiveness. All that remained of the column then was a spooky row of freshly smashed wrecks, still aflame along hundreds of yards on the road. Several vehicles had tried to scatter in the fields around; that did not save them. This doomed convoy had clearly mixed, for the misfortune of them all, motorized Wehrmacht units going up in line, and refugees marching to the Allies, preferring to go and put their fate into the victor's hands rather than to wait for the war to break over them. One could actually find, amongst all of those wreckages, quite a various mix of military and civilian vehicles. And as well, among the many, many bodies lying all over the ground, a mix of military... and civilians!... Lots of them...

And horses too. Lots of dead horses. Again... Whether believers or not, the battle-hardened veterans of the Falaise Pocket were grateful for the fact that the massacre was too recent, and the morning mist too cool for them to take the same stench they had to endure along some other roads in Normandy. Yet the smells of burnt flesh – either human or animal – could still reach their nostrils.

Sitting at the front hull side of the leading tank, with but their helmeted heads sticking out of their open hatches, the driver and his assistant seemed to synchronize their grimaces of disgust as the haze revealed the magnitude of the devastation. On the left, hands on his levers: Trini 'Gordo' Garcia; and on the right, nervously stroking the breech of his .30 MG: Redmond 'Red' (simply 'Red'!) Conley. Which other event but a World War could have brought together, for three years into the same small cabin, a Mexican butcher boy from Chicago and an Irish farmer from New England? And what's more, could have turned them into more than friends, more than brothers, almost an old couple?! When Red received good news from his family, or the maple syrup candies they sent him from Maine, Gordo was always the first one to enjoy. And when Gordo was in a bad mood, had had a bad night, or had got a slight cold, Red was always the first one to notice. In such a narrow space, each of them was even on the "best" seat to be aware when his neighbor experienced trouble digesting his powdered eggs! Such promiscuity, such intimacy, couldn't lead but to complete rejection, or to complete symbiosis; and regarding Red and Gordo, the symbiosis had perfectly worked.

-–- ¡Me cago en la hostia!_ They may have been Krauts, all of those people, this... This still makes me..._

-–- _Yep, bro... The same to me..._

At the topside of the tank, Grady 'Coon-Ass' Travis decided that he had seen enough of it; and after getting rid of his cigarette butt, the tall bastard in greasy khaki suit came back down into the turret, and to his fold-up seat as the main gun loader. Boyd Swan, the crew's gunner, took advantage of his hatch left open to go up, get some fresh air and enjoy the countryside. His eternally tired face cast an absent-minded and disillusioned eye all over the field of desolation around. Boyd was a firm believer, always ready to lecture his philistine brothers-in-arms on any matter, or to lead them into endless controversies over Good, Evil, or Salvation – which had earned him nicknames such as 'Preacher' or 'Bible'. The verse that came to his mouth on this occasion was one of his favorites, one that his companions had already heard him chanting on countless other similar occasions:

-–- _Even when I walk in the valley of darkness, I will fear no evil for You are with me..._

Standing chest-high out of the commander's open hatch, beside the Christian soldier, Don drew a nervous breath on the cigarette he had just lit in an attempt to appease the tremor that had his hands shake once again. Without much success, though...

-–- _Preacher, it seems to me that your damned valley of tears is running from Omaha Beach to Berlin!_

Staff Sergeant Don Collier was the commander of this tank, and the charismatic leader of its crew; 'Wardaddy' was the nickname, colored with an almost filial devotion, that his men had entitled him. Actually, the five of them had started their common journey to Berlin long before Omaha Beach. On the shores of Casablanca, to be true; then came the olive groves of Sicily, the hedgerow of Normandy, the snowy forests of Ardennes... Over the years, they had worn out the seats of half a dozen of Sherman tanks, in various upgraded models. Their latest mount to date was the ultimate 'Easy Eight' variant, delivered just before the deadly Battle of the Bulge. The name after which the proud war machine had been christened by its crew was displayed along the barrel of its powerful 76 mm gun, in white capital letters that constrasted sharply with its dark camo scheme: _**FURY**_ !

A loud voice suddenly sounded in Don's earphones:

_-–- Platoon Leader to 3rd Platoon: all stop!_

Don immediately passed on the order to Gordo, who had _Fury_ grind to a halt at the same time as the four other tanks. The voice kept on transmitting instructions:

-–- _LaSalle here, from _Fifolet_. Let's get a closer look at that mess, in search for survivors or documents. _Fury_ and _Foo-Fighter_: you stay here, ready to provide long-range cover fire with your 76s; smoke shells loaded. I'm moving ahead with _Fireball III_ and _Flatfoot Frankie_. Watch out for Panzerfausts, boys! LaSalle, over..._

Lieutenant LaSalle was leading the 3rd Platoon since The Bulge; a straight guy, who knew his job. Nothing to do for instance with petty Lieutenant Parker, 1st Platoon: a rookie lacking any knowledge beyond the manual. Don had a few buddies of old within this unit: Staff Sergeants Davis, Peterson, and Binkowski too. Valuable commanders... So sad to think that some stupid, by-the-book greenhorn like Parker would end up getting them killed, unless he passes away first.

Whilst vigilant, Don was feeling quite relaxed as the three Shermans cautiously went down the gentle slope, towards the long row of torn scrap, flames, and clouds of dark smoke. Still, the sergeant routinely maintained a watchful eye over the surroundings, by successively pointing his binoculars at any area suspicious to him – with some help from Red and Gordo, watching as well from their own open hatches. In front of Don's command seat, Boyd just kept track of the lieutenant's small task force advancing to the road through his gunsight, while a bored Grady preferred to fall half-asleep on his fold-up seat inside the turret.

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	2. Racing

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Surely _Fury_'s crew did not lack combat experience. Hence, nobody was really surprised when three quick beams of light suddenly burst out from the left of the formation, and stroke the flanks of two out of the three tanks that were advancing towards the sorry remnants of the convoy on the road. A high flame rose vertically from the top of the leading Sherman's turret; the hapless machine soon caught fire, while still moving forward at low speed down the slope. Over the next second, the tank behind was hit in turn, on its turret left side: a dazzling burst of sparks bloomed on impact, having the Sherman stop on the spot. The third tank, seemingly panicked, immediately reversed at full speed. This desperate move actually saved it from being hit by a fourth shot, coming from the left as well: the beam travelled in front of the machine, crossing the location it had just left.

-–- _What the f__...?!_ Grady yelled as brutally waken up. _Krauts!_

-–- _Ho, you bet?!» _Don mumbled just before pounding orders:_ «Button up! All hands to battle stations!_

A very ordinary day, indeed...

All of _Fury_'s hatches were closed in a trice. All except Sergeant Collier's at his command cupola: with but the upper half of his head sticking cheek-high out the edge, Don was scanning the area from which these lethal strikes originated, striving to see through the haze with his binoculars. A sudden flash from a distant new shot finally gave him the enemy's location. The Sarge stated in a clear sound voice, both over the radio for the platoon's other Sherman tanks as well as over the intercom for his own crew:

-–- _Contact, eight o'clock! Driver: face up! Loader: smoke shell! Gunner, target: the stand of trees on the edge of the field, range 750 yards. Four hostiles spotted at the moment: two Panthers and two Panzer IVs, hulls down!_

Bad news... Roughly equivalent to the Sherman, the Panzer IV made up the basic armored junk of the Third Reich's last divisions. But the Panther, on the other hand, was a 45-ton heavy tank reputed to be even more dangerous than the fearsome Tiger, enjoying a shell-proof front armor and a 75 mm gun with extra-long barrel, deadly up to the most distant ranges. In open grounds like this one, the most optimistic experts considered that five Shermans had to be sacrified in order to write off one single Panther; the most realistic ones rather said ten...

Anyway, _Fury_'s crew reacted as a perfectly-oiled team. Less than five seconds after the Sarge had passed his orders, Gordo had pivoted the tank that now faced the enemy, and Bible had shot toward its location the smoker previously loaded. The white cloud that quickly blossomed between the 3rd Platoon and the German threat would provide some relief to the American armored force, possibly even force the enemy tanks to leave their safe defensive position. Several voices began sounding over the radio: the other tank commanders were reporting their situation:

-–- _Don! Novak here, from _Foo-Fighter_! They got _Fifolet_, and _Fireball III_ as well, I think. The lieutenant is history. Now you are the one in command for whatever remains of the platoon..._

-–- Fireball_ here!_ a voice denied in a loud Midwestern accent. _Badly shaken, but still alive and willing! I'm with you, Don..._

-–- Flatfoot Frankie_ reporting in, ready to take orders!_ a third, younger voice tersely added, where an onset of panic could be detected yet.

-–- Fury_ to 3__rd__ Platoon, _Don quickly answered over the radio_. This open ground is freakin' doomed! Head for the destroyed column, double-quick: we gonna hide among the wrecks, under cover from the fire smoke! Move out, dammit!_

Gordo did not wait for Don's complete orders to have _Fury_ speed off. The machine roared and snatched its 30 tons off the slippery ground, spitting a bowl of dark smoke out of its exhausts. _Foo-Fighter_, Sergeant Novak's tank, immediately followed its path. Both of the other two Shermans that were advancing already towards the column, also rallied and hurried to the objective. In spite of the non-lethal impact that had left a grey ribbon of fumarole sticked to its turret, _Fireball III_ was holding the pace, and soon drove close to _Fury_. At the tail end of the formation, _Flatfoot Frankie_'s crew, the least experienced one within the 3rd Platoon, had fallen far behind. Don grabbed his microphone in order to radio the first reassuring news of that day:

-–- _We've been given a direct frequency to the Regimental HQ for this recce mission: I'm requesting an emergency air support over the area! Would those Kraut dummies just stay out there, the sky is about to fall upon their heads!_

All along this desperate race for life, each of the tank commanders kept a cautious watch on the smoke screen deployed by _Fury_ at the opening of the engagement, in fear of seeing the dreaded enemy Panthers pop out at any time. Seated at his gun's right side, Boyd had nothing better to do at the moment than stare as well through his scope at this lone, thin obstacle between them and their certain deaths. The gunner finally turned his skinny, fatalistic face towards Don sitting right behind him:

-–- _If these guys hold us responsible for the mass killing out there, I don't think they'll let us get away with a gentle slap on the cheek..._

-–- _Stop that bullshit! Stop it now!_ old Wardaddy ranted while pointing an accusing finger at the rough location of the Nazi tanks outside. _They__ are the ones responsible for these killings: this one, and all of the other ones before! And since long even before Poland!_

With their runaway tracks sending up in the airs large sprays of fat mud, the four machines kept on rushing towards helpful cover into the line of burning wrecks. _Fury_ was first to reach them, followed by Novak's Sherman. As both of the leading tanks were vanishing into the smoke, Don's earphones suddenly began to crackle, before he could hear an anxious voice:

-–- _Freeman here, from _Flatfoot Frankie. _German tanks in sight, just out of the smoke screen; one Panther leading. It... Jeezus, its turret is stalking my move! Press on, Bud! Damn, I'm just about to reach cover into the convoy, _Fury_, but it'll be close! I..._

The communication was brutally cut off. Don nervously called on his microphone:

-–- Flatfoot Frankie_? _Flatfoot_, report! Freeman?_

No use calling any longer, alas: there had been some kind of brief, inhuman howl over the radio, immediately followed by the sound of a sledgehammer striking an anvil, one millisecond before the silence fell in Don's earphones. Old Wardaddy perfectly knew what it meant for _Flatfoot Frankie_, for young Sergeant Freeman, and for his crew...

The three surviving tanks were now advancing at a very slow and silent speed amid this grim scrapyard, trying to maintain visual contact as they bypassed the blazing skeletons of vehicles aflame. Under such a smoky sky, no way to even guess where the sun could shine, that anyway was barely visible through the mist before. Sergeant Collier had dropped his now useless binoculars down his chest; yet, he kept on suspiciously watching the surroundings, as far as he could from his open hatch. All of a sudden, a volley of artillery fire fell without warning all around the three Sherman tanks. Some direct impacts on wreckages of light vehicles dangerously increased the density of shrapnel travelling through the airs. Pragmatically, Don chose to take shelter back inside the turret.

-–- _Blast! Buttoning up...!_ he shouted while hastily closing his hatch.

-–- _Kraut mortars, 120 mm; we are privileged, guys!_ Red assessed as a connoisseur, eyes on his scope, just through the look of the sprays of mud blooming all around the tank.

As a matter of fact, individual periscopes were actually now the only means of attempting to locate anything on this hellish ground. Over the next few minutes, the artillery barrage ceased briefly, resumed with lesser intensity, ceased again then resumed anew, keeping _Fury_'s crew under pressure inside its armored shelter. The smoke thus raised reduced further again any visibility, while the rumble from surrounding explosions deprived the men of any chance of getting bearings through the sound. It did not take long before Don lost contact with the other two tanks. After one last unsuccessful attempt to assess his situation from the inside of his panoramic cupola, the Sarge let loose a sigh of frustration, then took notice of Boyd and Grady down the turret, staring at him and waiting for his command.

-–- _Well, at least, we know what we'll have to face_, Don analyzed in a mixed tone. _The Kraut Panzers will certainly come and engage our own tanks in close combat, right here into this damned maze of burning iron. Besides, under all this smoke, they'll be unseen from our Air Force..._

-–- _Oh fuck... Fuuuck!_ Grady whined while nervously rubbing his face glistening with sweat already.

-–- _Not that a bad thing, actually_, Boyd intervened with his usual mildness and composure._ At long range, these Panther tanks strike hard without any hope for us to respond anyway. Yet at very short range... Now we got a chance..._

-–- _And you got the point, Bible_, Don concluded. _Coon-Ass, reload one piercer, and have some more ready at hand. Gentlemen, we're fighting for our lives!_

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	3. Fighting

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_Fury_ kept on cruising for some time at an idling pace, across the thick smoke that concealed the ghostly shapes of torn vehicles around, without managing to regain visual contact with _Foo-Fighter_ and _Fireball III_. The situation reports routinely transmitted by Sergeants Novak and Banks, commanders of' the other last two tanks in the 3rd Platoon, were crackling to no avail in Don's earphones, as he vainly strained his eyes on the periscope sight of his command cupola. Far from lifting, the morning mists were just thickening, and turning into a persistent fog.

The atmosphere inside the Sherman tank was silent and oppressive; sticky, had it to be translated into a sensation. The increased vigilance, and the constant apprehension of the shell which may come out of anywhere, hit them at any time, put a serious strain on the crewmen, already soaked in sweat notwithstanding the cold temperatures just outside. The distant rumble of the artillery, as well as the near misses of the mortar shells keeping on crashing around _Fury_ from time to time, accompanied and gave rhythm to the lonely wandering of the armored machine. Don had more than once to resist the temptation to open his hatch again; but the constant harassment by the German artillery posed too great a threat. One such blast much too close had the lens of Grady's scope covered in mud, rendering it useless.

All of a sudden, a quick glimpse of a blip shined through the haze in front of _Fury_ as a direct, high-velocity shot skimmed past the tank, so close that every man aboard, in spite of the hatches closed, could hear the wristling death passing by! A bloody close shave, for sure, yet the missile did little more than just blowing a few sparks off the turret's left side. Boyd Swan had managed to locate where the shot came from: the brief flash of light behind the smoke screen had been enough for him to identify the silhouette of a Panzer IV, barely 60 yards ahead of his gunsight.

Don too had spotted the enemy threat. With an AP***** round up the breech already, waiting for the sergeant's fire order was just a formality for Boyd, all the more so since he had already taken the initiative of aiming at this target nearby. A swift pressure on the gun firing foot switch, and... Hit! At such a short range, the piercer dug a perfectly round hole with sizzling edges into the right side of the Nazi tank's turret. As _Fury_ was getting closer to its victim, the hatch of the Panzer IV's command cupola suddenly opened; yet no crew member did ever escape. The kill was soon confirmed by the burning flames that burst out of the open hatch, and of the lethal shot entry hole.

-–- _One less anyway!_ Grady counted down, already busy reloading the gun with another AP_*****_ round that Red had just passed him.

-–- _Stop!_ Don shouted abruptly, having Gordo apply the brakes at once.

Perched high on his seat, right under his command hatch still locked down due to the artillery barrage, old Wardaddy was trying to oversee whatever he could catch from the course of this unusual battle in the mist, through the glass blocks of his all-around vision cupola. When at some point a brilliant flash of light illuminated his face, a happy smile also lit up his features; the show seemed to please him:

-–- Fireball III_ is standing by our side. Banks has just knocked out a Panzer IV, as soon as out of the haze! Nice shot, for a cripple..._

A second flash, even more dazzling, suddenly floodlit anew the Sarge's face, having him blink. Everyone on board could hear the roar from a nearby explosion, and feel the powerful lateral blast that had _Fury_ rock over its suspension. This slight disturbance, however, was nothing compared to the impact of a hardly imaginable violence, that on the very next moment stroke the Sherman and shook its whole crew like dice in a cup! The men were brutally thrown against the inner walls as well as the many protruding parts inside the tank – yet they managed to get away with a few minor bruises. Had they not constantly worn their crash helmets, some of them may still have had their skull fractured...

-–- _Crap!_ Grady shouted with a bleeding nose. _What was that, dammit?!_

-–- _'Twas Banks' turret crash-landing right onto our rear deck!_ Don sighed while contemplating the disaster from his observation cupola. _Now _Fireball_ has earned its name for good..._

-–- _...And we're next on the list!_ Gordo announced in a tense voice, while bustling to no avail on his dashboard. _The batteries have been shaken, badly: no juice any more, no way to restart! I don't think it broke the drive; but anyway, we're just pinned right here like stupid sitting ducks..._

-–- _And the turret is jammed as well, _Bible added._ The hydraulic traverse system seems okay, but some debris outside may... ...Oh Lord, have mercy on us, _the gunner suddenly soughed, with his eye stuck on his sight.

Don redirected at once his attention to the outside, and his jaws tensed up instantly. A gigantic Panther tank, preceded by the oversized barrel of its 75 mm gun, was emerging from the fog on the left of the Panzer IV hulk that _Fireball III_ had set on fire – just before itself being blown up, undoubtly by this Nazi ironclad monster. Quite surprisingly, the Panther was advancing cautiously over its wide tracks, without even seeming to have spotted _Fury_.

Sergeant Collier was thinking at full tilt. Likely, the Kraut had not yet considered as a potential threat the hapless Sherman, still covered in _Fireball_'s burning debris. A cunning trick that Don intended to use again, would he survive this encounter... The Panther was now showing its flank: the U.S. tank may have made the most of this critical mistake from the enemy crew – if only its turret could still rotate! But at the moment, it was just a golden opportunity passing by...

Don had reached that point in his reflections, when all of a sudden, a large bunch of sparks bloomed upon the Panther's sloped front hull. An armor-piercing round had just ricocheted off it, without managing to breach the thick plate. Still from his observation seat, Don immediately turned towards the point where this unexpected shot had come from. Popping out of the heavy smoke amidst the columns of mud raised in the air by the mortar hits, a Sherman tank with a 76 mm long-barrelled gun was just entering the stage at high speed. It was _Foo-Fighter_, Sergeant Novak's mount.

While quickly decreasing the distance to the Panther tank, _Foo-Fighter_ managed to pump two more shells into the Nazi juggernaut, before its large turret could face this newcoming threat. The second hit seemingly made it through the Panther's front turret armor, which did not prevent the Jerry from firing back in turn. Both tanks actually struck each other almost at point-blank range, and clearly once and for all: the Panther's shot knocked the Sherman off its course, but the Kraut ceased to give any sign of life after the Yank's last and final burst.

One single man still alive managed to escape the hell of the wreckages that were both catching fire: _Foo-Fighter_'s bow machine-gunner, who sprang out of his hatch on the Sherman's front hull top like a jack-in-the-box. Russ Canmore, 'twas his name – and "Do-more!", the nickname stuck on that bloody dodger... Don knew him about as well as any one of the other crewmen from 3rd Platoon. Stumbling under the shellfire all around, the tankman deprived of any protective armor turned on the spot again and again, confused, distraught, unable to decide where to run away. Still, he finally saw _Fury_, stopped only 10 yards to him in the mist. For one second, Don could look into the man's eyes, filled with pure terror. No whizz was ever heard before a heavy mortar bomb hit the ground at the vertical of the very place where Private Canmore was standing, mixing him forever to the German soil. At this moment, Don Collier knew that for the rest of his life, whatever long either short it would be, he would keep the poignant memory of that last despairing gaze meeting his own.

A pause in the shelling allowed the Sarge to half-open his hatch, in order to take a quick look at the outside. He heard at once, beyond the fog, the engine roar from a heavy tank closing in. Not an American Ford motor, no; a Kraut Maybach rather, to Don's seasoned ear. The rattling from wide tracks was also telling: the last Panther still in the running was driving to the sound of the guns, to come and put an end to the clash with a final duel between the last two roadworthy tanks. 'Roadworthy' was yet easy to say, regarding _Fury_'s sorry state: this duel was clearly doomed to be one-sided!

**-–- **_Bible!_ Don shouted into the turret. _Here comes trouble, we must have this bloody turret work now! Did you try __manually__?_

-–- _Yeah, powered traverse, hand wheel, anything__... No use! I don't think the rotation axis is bent, but I can feel something recalcitrating, just can't say where. Outside, surely..._

An explosion nearby clanged against the tank's armor, dissuading most of the crewmen from going out and confirming this theory by themselves. Only the most reckless one among them had guts enough to take the right and daring decision: Red Conley, Gordo's assistant driver, suddenly opened his hatch, then grabbed a monkey wrench, and started to haul himself up onto the hull:

-–- _I'm going up there to find out what's wrong__! If we can recover this turret, dammit, we won't get chowed down without fighting!_

Stunned at first, Gordo tried with some delay to hold his friend back by the trouser left leg of his khaki suit:

-–- ¿¡Pero?!_ Red, no! Th__e shellfire is still raging outside! You're dead if you go there!..._

-–- _...And we're all dead if I don't! Com'on, don't worry, baby: I'd have had it already since long, if it were written. Right, Bible?_

At first, Red had only his chest and pelvis out of the hatch, pressing his feet against the protruding breech of his .30 MG. Before long, Gordo could hear him provide his diagnosis, in a muffled voice filtering from the outside; the driver could assess as well his assistant's effort through the strain of his legs, that were still sheltered inside the tank's hull:

-–- _Okay, I can see the flaw: a debris that got stuck in the turret ring, right here under the gun mantlet. Nothin' I can't fix up... Out there, you! Rhaah...! Will you, you sonof...! Rhhaahaaah-Gah! Yesss! Alright, now it's cleared...! Just alr..._

Red was interrupted by the roar of an explosion, even closer than the previous ones. His body suddenly tightened, his feet slipped on their pivot, and he fell back heavily upon his seat, where he convulsed for a few endless seconds, splashing blood all over the inside walls, before freezing once and for all. Without a word. Without expression. Without his head...

In shock, Gordo couldn't but stare at his friend's mutilated body, with his eyes and mouth overly open, hyperventilating like a fish out of the water, without a sound making it out of his lips. It was Grady, while leaning into the hull, who noticed the tragedy and reported to the Sarge:

-–- _Don! Red has had it... Kaput! His head, er, just stayed outside..._

Don tipped his head in turn, but only clenched lips silently: the present emergency was elsewhere, alas. Outside, the last Panther had just made it out of the smoke screen right ahead of _Fury_, showing its heavily armored front hull, but also its turret right side with thinner protection. Boyd, for his part, had noticed already his own turret's revival, and was aiming his sight at the threat closing in. This move had the enemy tank react: its heavy turret started to traverse too – with painful slowness, fortunately. Don shouted:

-–- _Coon-Ass! Reload, HVAP*****!_

-–- _No more! _the tall man moaned while turning around his stock with a desperate eye._ Nothin' left but basic piercing rounds down here!_

-–- _Its turret will soon face ours, _Boyd noticed with his eye fixed on his gunsight._ And even that close, no way we can ever breach the front of such a monster with a common AP*****!_

Lord, surely Don knew that. He was still observing the Panther and its turret rotating, helpless, when a detail suddenly catched his attention. He shouted at once:

-–- _Loader! Smoker, hurry!_

-–- _Wait... What?!_

-–- _Just do it, damn!» _Don's direct order was emphasized with a nervous kick that closely missed the shoulder of Grady, busy already at picking up the shell from its rack. The sergeant immediately leaned forward to Boyd's ear – even while the gunner could perfectly hear him over the intercom:_ «Bible! Shoot this bloody phosphorus shell right at the Panther's front turret! Those Kraut assholes have left their hull hatches wide open just below the gun mantlet... Burn them to their bones!_

-–- _WP__*****__, up!_ Grady shouted while closing the gun's breech with a sharp snap.

Boyd evacuated some of his nervous tension as he kicked the foot pedal trigger. Almost as soon as out of the barrel, the shell exploded on impact against the Panther's wide front turret, letting a burst of large sparks and burning shrapnel flare out like Independance Day fireworks! A thick white smoke quickly spread, soon concealing the Panther's outline. Through the cloud, one could hear shrill wails from the two German tankmen sat at the front hull, burned and blinded by phosphorus. These heartbreaking howls ceased as soon as resounded the first softened detonations from the ordnance blowing up inside the Panther ablaze.

-–- «Das war für Red, ihr Nazi Schweine!»******, Don growled ominously.

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_*** **_AP: Armor Piercing shell / HVAP: High Velocity Armor Piercing shell (superior penetration) / WP, or Willy Peter: White Phosphorus (smoke shell with incendiary effects)  
_**** **__«That__ was for Red, you Nazi scum!__»_


	4. Mourning

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.

Four German Panzers had bittten the dust: all of the four ones that Don had spotted, just a few minutes before... So, the battle was likely over. Alas, it had also cost all of the four other Sherman tanks in the 3rd Platoon, as well as their crews...

Tension had trouble easing inside the turret; the rush of adrenaline during the last minutes had been far too great. All of Don, Grady and Boyd were feeling the same: the husky panting of runaway breathings, the violent knocking of heartbeats that just can't slow down, the sticking of sweat flowing down the necks and backs... The three men were simply in the same state as after a frantic sex session! Bible, who had just dispatched to hell the crews of two Nazi tanks, leaned forward to kiss in reverence the scope of his gunsight, just the same way a Christian knight would have done with the hilt of his sword.

-–- _Never give up hope of the Lord's merciful hand,_ he whispered as looking down.

-–- _Amen!_ Don tersely approved.

The sergeant suddenly noticed Gordo's worrying silence, at the front hull. As he came closer, he realized that the driver was still in shock, virtually petrified, apart from the few sobs that feebly shook his chest. The poor man was staring straight ahead, striving not to look at his friend's mutilated body sprawled to his right, whose hand still loose and warm he had seized yet.

Surely it would take a lot to have a guy like Trini Garcia completely lose his nerve; a guy whose job as a butcher in Chicago had got used to the sight of blood and open viscera, many years before the Army would call him; a guy who had experienced already all of the worst that war can offer, from the stink in the killing fields of Normandy, to the Ardennes forests where whole companies had slaughtered each other for a miserable crossroad, or for some snowy ridge; a guy who, on second thought, may have just experienced too much already, and to whom the brutal death of his closest friend, right before his eyes, would have just been the excess blow that plunged him into such a catatonic state.

For the time being, _Fury_ was still stuck under hellish beating from German heavy mortars. Yet over the next minutes, the shelling began to move away, then to die down. At first, Don half-opened his command hatch, cautiously, then popped his head out. The terrible scrapyard of flaming wrecks was still there, barely more hideous now that it had gained a new handful of tank hulks. The mix of smoke and cold air had the Sarge cough, before he started to haul himself up onto the turret:

-–- _I'm going to clear the top as best as I can... To check what is still operable, what can be fixed, what can't be... You stay inside; and you stay alert!_

For his own security, Don brought the German big assault rifle with curved magazine that he had appropriated just the week before. He let his hatch wide open when leaving, ready to jump down and take shelter in case the bombing would resume. So Boyd and Grady could clearly hear him bustle on top of the tank, all along endless minutes. Still panting, the two men waited for him to come back, keeping one eye over the outside, and the other one on Gordo, whose state of prostration they were finding increasingly disturbing.

Don soon let himself back into the turret, with a strange expression on his tired and dirty face:

-–- _Everything looks all right up there; both MGs on the turret top are still working, and I've cleared out the last scraps that were still lying over the hull...»_ Don sighed as he unfolded some kind of rag he was nervously twisting between his gloves: _«...I have retrieved that too. It was stuck on the gun mantlet, right above Red's hatch._

-–- _And...?_ Grady asked with a worried look._ What is it...?_

With surprisingly tender gestures, the sergeant laid down the strange piece of rag behind the late assistant driver's seat. Boyd would have sweared that Don was on the edge of bursting in tears when he answered in a choked voice:

-–- _It's Red!_

Boyd and Grady leaned forward to check this incredible assertion. And yes, unquestionably, this miserable piece of torn flesh encompassed all of the main features of their unfortunate friend, who seemed to stare at them from the afterlife in quite a disturbing way.

At this very moment, old Wardaddy really deserved his nickname: he was looking as overwhelmed as old King Priam mourning the death of the first of his sons doomed to fall before the walls of Troy. Don had to take it upon himself to silence a sob when he added:

-–- _I'd have preferred to keep in mind any other last memory of his face__; really, any other one rather than... that! But I could not decently leave him outside..._

-–- _Poor Red_, Boyd sighed in a seemingly absent-minded voice. _He's gone as a hero to save all of us..._

Gordo was still whining in shock, without his right hand ceasing to embrace the headless body's left one. He finally spoke for the first time since Red's death, in a plaintive voice:

-–- _I can't even imagine he may ever be replaced... There's no guy, no fucking bastard in all of this army that could ever be half the man he was!_

-–- _Yah, some Kraut motherfucker could cut by half the man he was, yet!_ Grady giggled as he put a cigarette in his big mouth.

Don clouted the bloody jerk's shaved nape as he ranted sharply:

-–- _Damn you, Coon-Ass! You have no freakin' respect, have you?! You're really the downest sonofabitch on earth, you know that?! And chuck the hell out that fuckin' cig! If you wanna smoke, crap, or drop such bullshits, you go outside! Just try not to draw too much attention upon us when you get shot up..._

-–- _Don's right, brother_, Bible added in his quiet voice. _If you can't smell the gasoline fumes inside, then you have a serious problem with your nose..._

-–- _I __have__ a serious problem with my nose, okay?!_ the brutish lout grumbled. _Fuck, got it crashed into the 76's breech when we took half of _Fireball_ upon our skulls, alright?! Hurts like hell, damn..._

-–- _That won't make you look much uglier, you animal, _Don growled unsympathetically. _Well, now that the grease smell can't disturb you any more, go and stick your broken nose into the engine; look for what you can fix on the electric circuit._

Grady reluctantly complied, after picking up a toolbox stored next to Red's seat. Don got back up to his command seat and remained there, silent, lost in his dark thoughts while watching the surroundings. As for Boyd, he came and sat on Grady's fold-up seat in order to get closer to Gordo. The godly man then tried to soothe the pain of his friend with one of his usual sermons:

-–- _Brother, I'm sure that Red has sat already at the Lord's right hand; and that wherever he is, he's telling Him some good words for us..._

-–- _Yah, sure_, Grady muttered while toiling alone._ I just hope he'll warm the other seats for us, when we come round and join him – soon!_

-–- _Grady Donahue Travis, _Boyd sighed_, I'm afraid your seat won't be at the Lord's right hand, but rather at the very left of Satan's dirtiest outhouse..._

Coon-Ass sweared loudly at this very moment, after banging his head: he had just sustained a bloody electric shock, a proof that the batteries still had juice – to Bible, also a proof of God's zero tolerance towards blasphemy!

-–- Arschloch_*****!_ Don abruptly yelled from his observation seat.

Any curse in German falling from Sergeant Collier's station had always been a bad omen so far: a clear alarm signal, warning about the approach of those Nazis he hated so much. So Boyd rushed at once at Grady's scope, and redirected the sight toward the azimuth that seemed to retain Don's attention. On the low ridge overlooking the smoky scrapyard, a horseman had just appeared: for what could be seen, a German officer on a white mount. The man was riding along the ridge line, upright on his saddle, as quiet as if the shelling could not resume at any time. This sight had Don get angry anew:

-–- _What, t__his _Junker_*****__ bastard! he __thinks he's riding across his lands in Bavaria?!_

-–- _Maybe an artillery observer_, Bible suggested. _And probably some trophy hunter too... The poor moron just can't imagine where he's going to set hoofs!_

-–- _Yep!_ Coon-Ass agreed from his grease monkey's cave. _He's going to bump into damn rivals..._

Honestly, the depths of _Fury_ may have been compared to some doubtful junk shop, filled with a complete paraphernalia of Kraut gas mask with its typical snout, Lüger pistol with holster, SS officer's cap, Iron Crosses and other Nazi medals hanging from their ribbons... Don was still silently stalking the move of this so arrogant visitor, from his all-around vision cupola. After a while, he reported:

-–- _This rat has disappeared out there... But he'll certainly get back to _Fireball_, _Foo-Fighter_, and ourselves: that kind of scavenger can't resist such wrecks that fresh! I'm going out to hide behind the turret: so when he 's back, I may salute him in my very own way...__»_ The Sarge took out of its sheath the broad-bladed knife that he rarely left behind: _«__...and introduce him to an old friend!_

Grady was still lying on his back over the engine block, tinkering with the electric wiring. The cold anger that could be felt in Don's voice had him sneer vulgarly:

-–- _Hurh-hurh-hurh! Somethin' tells me that Wardaddy is about to bring us a new scalp!_

-–- _Bring back his Iron Cross rather, if he's got one, _Boyd quietly said while fondling the ribbons of the many war trophies hanging from the inner walls of the turret._ We'd really need to refresh somewhat the interior decoration..._

.

– _**What is to come next... is on your DVD ! –  
**_– _Voilà: I just hope that this little fiction pleased you, and that you'll remember it when watching again the opening of the movie... –_

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* * *

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_*** **__Arschloch_: asshole / _Junker_: German aristocrat and landowner


End file.
